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Người theo dõi của norsedemonlord

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I want sex with you...

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Hey guys 💙 Your support means the world to me if you like my work leave the like and follow, love you guys and keep creative ❤️ Thank you for being here. I like all kinds of shit.. from softcore to extreme gangbang. If the image turns out good I'll make post with it...

AI art 'Glass fern'

11

Glass fern

AI art 'Aura Captured' with user description 'The snow crunched beneath my boots as I approached the tavern, a solitary beacon of warmth in this frozen wasteland. My violet hair whipped in the biting wind, and the **Scales of Obedience** at my hip rattled—a reminder of my absolute authority. I, Aura the Guillotine, did not fear these mortals. They were but insects whose lives were measured in the weight of their souls.
As I reached the door, an old, obese man blocked my path, his face a map of filth and scars. "You killed them all," he rasped. "My entire bloodline. I challenge you, Aura. A measure of souls." My pride was my undoing. I scanned his mana; it was pathetic. I could have ended him instantly, but I wanted to see the despair on his face when his own soul condemned him. I summoned the Scales, pouring my vast, ancient mana into my side. The scale tipped instantly toward me. But seconds before his mana touched the plate, he drained a shimmering vial.
It was a **Potion of Infinite Illusion**. It didn’t actually increase his power, but it tricked the magical logic of the scales, making his mana appear as a bottomless, infinite abyss for five crucial seconds. The balance slammed down on his side with the force of a falling mountain. Because the scale "saw" him as superior, its magic bound my very soul to his will.
"Silence," he commanded, his voice cold and flat. "Speak only when I tell you to. Only do what I want you to do."
He took me to his new home town, a place I destroyed 60 years ago, rebuilt by the child i dis not kill that time.. he ordered me to serve every one of them, and i Did... one after another, no resting.. some where big, big as monsters, their bodies made mine look small, After forty-eight hours of being used by every man in his village—my demonic body cruelly resetting my anatomy to a virgin state after every violation—he led me to a stone square. "Put your head and hands through here," he ordered, pointing to a heavy, stone-and-iron guillotine frame. "**Wait here in this position in silence until I return. And keep serving anyone who comes to use you.**"
He never came back.
I have been in this position for seven hundred years. My neck and wrists are locked into the frame, my spine permanently arched, my rear perpetually exposed to the whims of the kingdom that grew around my shackle. I have forgotten the sound of my own voice; the concept of speech has withered in my mind like a dead leaf. I have forgotten the taste of food and the warmth of a bed. Most importantly, I have never slept. My demonic stamina ensures I remain wide awake, forced to witness every second of my degradation through the centuries.
The square is never empty. I have become a living monument, a landmark of flesh and stone. Around the base of my pedestal, a permanent slum of forty hobos has taken root. They live in wretched huts built against my legs, treating my body as a communal hearth. While the city sleeps, they take turns fucking me all night long, their unwashed bodies a constant weight against my cold skin. During the day, travelers from across the world join the queue. Sometimes five or six men use me simultaneously—one at my mouth, others at my pussy and anus—clambering over each other to claim a piece of the monster.
My body is a cursed masterpiece of regeneration. It is a biological nightmare of rapid recovery. One second, a man withdraws and my ass is left **extremely gaped**, a dark, distended void pulsing from the trauma of his intrusion; in the very next second, the demonic magic surges through my tissue, sealing the opening until it is **virgin again**. I am a perpetual loop of destruction and restoration, a tight, "pure" vessel that is torn open by the next stranger only to reset before his seed even cools.
I no longer think of magic. The only thing that exists is the count. I have become a living abacus. One billion. One billion and ten. The number is the only thing I truly know. I watch the fashion of the men change and the seasons bleed into centuries. I am a hole in the center of the world, a silent vessel that has processed the seed of entire lineages. I am the first demon to ever feel the sting of a tear, a single drop of salt water that has carved a permanent track down my weathered face—a testament to a billion men and an eternity of silence.'

30

Aura Captured

AI art 'Girls Swimming'

6

Girls Swimming

AI art 'Tojo Casting' with user description 'The private observation chamber was a masterclass in voyeuristic luxury. The center of the room featured a transparent glass cube, reinforced to withstand immense pressure, surrounded by a plush lounge where twelve "Elite Benefactors" sat in silence. They had paid a king’s ransom to witness the impossible: the systematic dismantling of the Ultimate Maid’s composure. Kirumi Tojo stood inside the glass, the cold surface pressing against her back, while the colossal man loomed before her.
"They didn't just come to see me finish, Kirumi," the man wheezed, his heavy hand slapping against the glass wall. "They came to see you fail. They want to see that 'Perfect' mask crack when nine hours of my girth meets that tight, virgin ass of yours. You’re being fucked for an audience."
Kirumi didn't spare a glance for the men outside the glass. "My audience is irrelevant, sir. My focus is entirely on the fulfillment of your needs. If your satisfaction requires a witness, then that is simply another layer of the service I provide."
The man’s mocking laughter echoed in the cube. "We’ll see how 'professional' you stay. Because I’m going to start with you in that uniform. I want to feel the lace and the fabric tear as I split you open."
The first three hours were a brutal display of endurance. Forced against the glass, Kirumi remained in her full maid uniform, the back of her skirt hiked up as the man made his initial, violent entry. The impact of his massive frame sent tremors through the glass, creating a rhythmic, wet thumping sound that the observers watched with bated breath. Kirumi’s face was pressed against the cold surface, her eyes wide and focused on her own reflection as the fabric of her bloomers was shredded by the sheer force of the intrusion.
At the four-hour mark, the man paused, his breath hitching. "Strip," he commanded. "I want the rest of this to be skin on skin. I want the glass to feel every bit of your heat."
Kirumi obeyed with mechanical precision. She stepped out of the ruins of her uniform, standing completely naked in the center of the glass box. Her pale, lithe body was a stark contrast to the man's gargantuan, sweating form. She returned to her position against the glass, her hands splayed against the surface for balance, her spine arching as he reclaimed his position.
The remaining six hours were a symphony of degradation. To the onlookers, it was a biological anomaly. They watched as the man’s monstrous girth relentlessly hammered into Kirumi’s posterior passage, the friction turning her skin a deep, angry crimson. Through the glass, they could see the terrifying extent of the stretch—the way her uninitiated opening was forced to yawn around a diameter it was never meant to house.
As the ninth hour approached, the man’s movements became a frantic, desperate surge. With a final, guttural roar, he slammed Kirumi one last time against the glass, his weight making the entire structure groan. He finally achieved his release, a massive, cooling deluge that flooded her ravaged core.
When he finally withdrew and the doors to the cube slid open, the silence in the lounge was deafening. The "Perfect Maid" didn't collapse. She leaned against the glass for support, her legs trembling violently.
Her anus was a catastrophic ruin. The tight, pristine seal was gone, replaced by a dark, distended void that remained wide open, pulsing with the shock of nine hours of total expansion. The muscles had been pushed so far past their limit that they hung paralyzed; the opening was a permanent, gaping circle, unable to retract or close. A thick, dark mixture of blood and fluid leaked steadily from the hollowed-out aperture, pooling at her heels and smearing against the glass she had been pinned against.
Despite the fact that her anatomy had been fundamentally altered—that she was now a "virgin" with a permanent, yawning hole—Kirumi reached for a cleaning cloth.
"The service has been completed," she whispered, her voice a hollow rasp. She began to wipe the man's sweat and her own blood from the glass, her movements stiff and agonizing. To the stunned rich men watching, she was no longer just a maid; she was a monument to a devotion that had survived the impossible.'

16

Tojo Casting

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